Prologue   The Short-Bus Story   I have to admit, in the spirit of full disclosure, that I once harbored aspirations of becoming an after-school special. On June 2, 2003, I was waiting in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in Manhattan for Ernest, an independent movie producer interested in optioning the story of my life. We were to have breakfast that morning with a producer from Merv Griffin Entertainment, during which I was to "pitch" myself as the subject for an after-school special.        Shifting my weight back and forth, I turned over the situation in my mind. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be leaving New York to fly to Los Angeles, where I had grown up, to pick up an old short school bus (the kind used to take some kids with disabilities to special ed programs). My plan was to transform this vehicle into a makeshift RV and depart from California on a two-month journey around the United States.        On the road I''d interview and spend time with people, like myself, who had once been labeled "abnormal" or "disabled." I wanted to see how they overcame--or didn''t--being labeled different.

I wanted to see the lives they fashioned for themselves. Waiting for Ernest, watching old ladies with plastic faces and big diamonds pass by, I suddenly realized that my trip really wasn''t after-school-special material. I wanted to empower people, but I also wanted to be real, completely honest, and unsentimental.        A short-bus rider myself, I had grown up in special education, having been labeled learning disabled with attention problems at the end of third grade. I was one of those kids who grew up chilling out with janitors in the hallways; one of those kids who were always on a first-name basis with Shirley, the receptionist in the principal''s office; one of those kids who grew up hiding in the bathroom to escape reading out loud. I dropped out of school for a while in sixth grade and had a plan for suicide by the time I was twelve. A high school guidance counselor confided that people like me ended up flipping burgers. That prediction did not come true; I eventually graduated from Brown University with an honors degree in literature and published a book, in part about my experiences.

I had believed, when I arranged to meet the producer, that all this could be the subject of a movie. Now I was realizing I had to tell it my way.     Ernest, who had a handlebar mustache and wore a blue western vest, tapped me on the shoulder and escorted me to the restaurant, where we were to wait for the producer whom I thought of as the Man. Kind and quiet, Ernest looked like a fusion of accountant and, given the mustache, retired porn star. As we sat and drank coffee, he told me about his work. He had read my first book, Learning Outside the Lines, and thought my story was pretty inspiring stuff. "You are an American success story," Ernest said. I mulled that over as I ate my fancy eggs.

Is that what I wanted, to be what television considered "inspiring"? After about fifteen minutes, the producer arrived, and Ernest rose to stand at attention. It was clear the Man made all the decisions.        I was used to selling myself, selling my story. So after the pleasantries, I leaned forward to deliver my well-rehearsed pitch, but something strange happened: when I opened my mouth nothing came out. My old song and dance about overcoming my "disability" seemed like a fraud. I had wanted this meeting but just couldn''t do it. I couldn''t speak about my resilient mom, or my determination to be successful, or even the injustice I faced in school. "Did I tell you all that I''m about to leave for a trip around the country in a special ed school bus?" I asked.

Ernest looked downcast. After a little explanation of what a short bus was and who rode it, the conversation stopped. The Man adjusted his belt and said, "Why the hell would you do that?"        I did and did not have an exact answer to this question. My reasons for this trip shifted around like the sides of a Rubik''s cube; the moment I thought I had something pinned down, the other side was screwed up, jumbled, and needed to be rearranged again. Why would I go back to my experiences of disability when I had transcended all that? What did I hope to find out there back in the bus? Sitting at that table, I was at a loss. What emerged, however, was as close to an answer as I could muster: "I''m going because of two kids, named Bobby and Clay."     I first met Bobby in the fall of 2000, somewhere in the middle of America, shortly after graduating from college, on my book tour. Book tour was actually an optimistic term.

I''d personally planned this jaunt during a summer spent holed up in my pathetic apartment "spamming" disability Web sites and contacting unsuspecting moms. I''d offered to come to their towns, free of cost, sleep in their homes, and lecture to any audience that they could scrounge up. After managing to get some invitations, I packed my bags, perfected my authoritative yet sincere speaking voice, and set off for self-help stardom. I wanted to sell my book and cap off my rise-to-success story. (From hiding in the bathroom to Ivy League student to best-selling author.) I was under the illusion that I would be healed by fame, that recognition would save that little kid who used to hide in the bathroom during reading class.        Then I met Bobby Glass. I''d been standing in a school gym, answering questions, but I could not take my eyes off this young kid in the back of the line.

He was no more than five feet tall, and while I autographed books, I watched him snake back and forth with the rhythm of the line. I couldn''t take my eyes off his colored eyeglasses. They were a deep purple, and they seemed custom-made for him. I nodded as people asked me questions: So what is the best medication for ADD? You''re so normal; most kids aren''t like you. How can my Jane go to an Ivy League university?        When Bobby had introduced himself he said, "You ever seen these?" He gestured at his glasses. I laughed. "Seen ''em? I was told to wear a pair, man." These colored glasses were often prescribed as a way to "fix" dyslexia and other reading problems.

I hadn''t seen them in a long time. They took me back in time. "No shit?" Bobby said. "I''m sixteen now; they prescribed these for me when I was ten. Don''t need these things anymore, never did, but I keep them as a reminder of how they tried to fix me all the time: the shrinks, the school, my parents." Minutes later, after our bond had become undeniable, Bobby made a confession. He took off his glasses for a second, then said, "You know I snapped once. I had had enough.

"     Bobby was in sixth grade the day that he decided to just give up. His mom had dropped him off at the bottom of the gravel pathway that led to school, hoping he would walk to class by himself. His clothes didn''t feel right that morning, although every day he wore almost the same thing: the same hat, the same pants, and the same red shirt.        At school, Bobby walked up and down the hall looking for that one spot where he could hide. This happened almost every day, and the teachers always laughed at Bobby. Sometimes other things would be said, things he would never forget. With him, teachers could say anything. All he could ever see of one teacher was a big dot.

This was because of all the dots that she put on his work--a dot on every word that was not written nicely, two dots for the misspelled ones.        That day, the air was filled with the kind of silence that comes before a snowstorm or a lightning storm. Bobby felt the snow starting as he headed down the road home that day. I saw Bobby in my mind as he described walking home, visualized his purple eyeglasses moving silently through the snow. He entered the house the way he always did, past his dog, Jake. No one was home, and he knew no one would be there for a while, unless the snow got bad and his mom left work early. But it was quiet.        Bobby Glass''s note was found in his backpack after he tried to kill himself, after he was discovered, just in time.

He had fashioned a noose above his bed.        When Bobby finished telling me his story, the cafeteria had long emptied. But he kept on talking. "Did I tell you I just got into college, early admission to study math? It had nothing to do with those purple eyeglasses or anything they did to fix me. You know, they''ve come up with a lot of fancy diagnoses, a lot of talk about disorders and disabilities, but not much has changed, has it? Why? Jon, that''s my question because we seem more disabled than ever."     The fall turned into the winter, and I was still on the road, but because of the way Bobby''s tale sank into me, all the other stories seemed more vivid and important. These weren''t so-called success stories like mine, but the testimonies of kids who still locked themselves in bathrooms and threw up during reading class; memories from those who hid under their beds and had ulcers; tales of others who pulled out their hair and scratched their faces until they bled. I heard stories of people who grew up in segregated schools--in institutions for the disabled.

I heard firsthand accounts from people who were sterilized.        But I also heard stories of transcendence--of artists who attributed their creativity to their disabilities, of people who learned to think beyond the labels pinned on them. What.